Death Is My Friend with Benefits (Book Four - WA Winner 2013)

Chapter 17: Stretch

The feelz.

* * * 

The next couple of weeks in my life would be absolute torture.

            And I do not, I repeat: do not...say this lightly.

            The morning after Death had become "inebriated" by alcohol, I woke up in a pretty good mood. Then I found out I was the only one in the apartment. Ok, so now I was in a really good mood. But could you blame me? I basically had locked mouths with the hottest man on the planet while he was intoxicated and lose and everything not Death, then didn't have to deal with the awkward "we-totally-madeout-last-night-even-though-I'm-going-to-kill-you" conversation.

            Plus, I was all by myself in the apartment while Death was out doing who knows what, able to do anything I wanted -- which immediately meant me eating everything in his fridge (which consisted of many delicious things, let me tell you), sliding along the floor in my underwear while working one of Death's Calvin Klein sweaters, that I could automatically tell was never worn, and spritzing manly cologne all over the place as I frolicked around and jumped on furniture-- but that's beside the point.

            The point is, my fun quickly ended. It ended when I found the suitcases in one of Death's many living rooms, filled with items from my own apartment. Clothing. (Even underwear.) Shampoo and conditioner. One of my favorite fuzzy blankets and blue body pillow. Slippers.

            A sudden sadness washed over me as I imagined my first apartment -- the apartment I shared with Marcy and had many good and bad times in. Where I curled up in our living room and watched late night TV shows or read a book, called dibs on the only bathroom in the apartment, and secretly blasted the music out of the speakers that Devin Star had given me as a gift when Marcy wasn't home.

             Just like that, I was moving in with Death.

            I unzipped another suit case and immediately found a note neatly folded up in an envelope that read Faith. in Death's flawless calligraphy. I hadn't gotten one of Death's famous letters in a while, and couldn't help but feel butterflies in my stomach. I sat on the arm of a chair and unfolded the note with a small smile edging on my mouth, that unfortunately started to fall as I read:

            Good morning. Put away your items in the guest bedroom and dress on clothing that you will feel comfortable to workout in. I'll be back in a few hours, then your training will begin. I recommend that you enjoy the next few hours of freedom you have without me, as I'm sure you already have. Be good.

            -D

            P.S- It won't happen again.

            Unless it's beneficial.

            "Beneficial?!" I half-screamed.

            I crumbled the note in a ball and threw it across the room with a scream. Was he freaking serious? It wouldn't happen again? Beneficial? Was he five years old? Beneficial? What did that even mean? Maybe it meant the passionate kissing, mixed with the passionate touching, mixed with the vulnerability -- all of the things that the "Angel of Death" just didn't "do". Or maybe it meant that events like the night before could only happen if my hand was down those stupid leather pants that form perfectly around those stupid muscular legs!